


Poetic Nods

by inklet



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3124100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inklet/pseuds/inklet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and his precious Inquisitor take advantage of an hour alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetic Nods

"I do wish you'd tell me your name."

You're distracted when Dorian's silky voice reaches your ears, your eyes roaming the aged surface of a letter you plucked off some stranded corpse. It's audible when you respond, sitting on the edge of his bed. "So you've expressed before," you hum back.

"For me, darling. I promise you that I'd never to let another soul hear of it, with the minor exception of dreadfully thin walls and an accidental slip in the consuming throes of passion." He's prowling toward you, stroking one groomed half of his mustache. "In that scenario, to be fair to myself, you'd be equally as responsible."  
  
He rubs your shoulders, wanting to coax you into his arms, but you're stiff and unwilling. Work awaits, as tempting as Dorian's hands are, strong and powerful but gentle. The firm stare of a displeased Josephine discourages you from caving in.

You chuckle. "What, and risk dulling my mysterious edge? I don't think so."

"You must admit. It would be so much _sexier._ " Dorian goes on, emphasizing the last word with a gravelly flair. He lolls his head to the side so that his ear touches his shoulder and you feel his eyes on you, warm, studious. He's openly staring, and your heart senses it.  
  
"I should also typically presume mutual introductions are more fit come _before_ an actual romantic partnership, at any rate." His tone lightens with a cheeky sort of smile as he gazes upon you, punctuating his observation with a grand gesture. "And yet— here we are. My dearest Inquisitor, you are full of surprises."

"I tend to be. Perhaps that's how I've managed not to bore you."

"Perhaps," Dorian drawls, cattish. "Or perhaps it's that tongue of yours."

"Interesting choice of words. The things it does or the things it says?"

"Both, among other things. Would you stop ogling that damned note? You're well aware I get cranky if I feel I lack attention." You are unresponsive and this displeases him. He gives up his pursuit on your shoulders, lying back against the pillows.

You roll your eyes and he sees it in the gesture of your head rather than your eyes themselves. "Patience."

"Patience, you say! I've plenty of that. Only _now_ do I dare file a complaint. It's been days since we've had a proper hour to ourselves and you wish to spend it eyeing a piece of paper as if it were the very ass of Andraste." His shoulders are bristling like a cat, and you recognize the cut of his tongue before he soothes himself.  
  
Dorian's shoulders still do not heighten with humor, nor does the lower half of his face tighten into a coy smile. He is all softness, his demeanor quiet and waiting. "Excuse my avidity, if it's so objectionable."

You sigh through your nose, placing the paper down. It's so light that it flutters and settles a few inches back.

Dorian perks up at the movement. "On the contrary, I rather like your avidity," you counter as you crawl toward him on the bed, doing your best to empty your mind of work. He smiles, raising a hand to cup the side of your face and rub your cheek with his thumb.

He darts in for a quick kiss, and you keep him there as you return it. He makes a pleasantly surprised noise.

You place a hand in between his legs, against the visible tent he's sporting. Another noise escapes him. "More, my love. Hard. I won't break."

Inspired, your other hand comes down and you make quick work of his pants, tugging them down to his mid-thigh.

His breathing grows heavy, sharp and cunning eyes laced with uncertainty as he looks between you and his hardened length. "You're staring," he comments when your silence disrupts the thoughtless rhythm of desire, equal parts amusement and vulnerability.  
  
"Please, it isn't as though you two have never met," Dorian quips, gesturing down at his own crotch gracefully with one glove-clad hand. "Genitals, meet Inquisitor. Inquisitor, meet genitals. Do forgive him. He's not the best with remembering names."

Wrapping your digits around him, he hisses through his teeth. "You talk too much," you tell him fondly before you kiss at his neck, stroking. "You're lucky I find your wit so attractive. Others may not be so kind." You're not serious about the last part, of course. He laughs, winded.

Tension causes him to struggle through his response. "Luck has precisely nothing to do with it. My everything is attractive to everyone," he declares.

"Another charming display of your eloquence," you muse as you continue to please him with your palm. He ruts up against you, hips arched, licking his lower lip. "Inquisitor," his smooth voice cracks, sound barely leaking from his throat.  
  
His tongue sounding against his teeth and the roof of his mouth is louder than his voice. Pressing your lips against his ear, you breathe hotly into it. "Dorian. You look amazing."  
  
He loves it when you compliment him like that. It strokes his ego, one less inflated than he'd like the public to believe, and you can tell the way he looks at you deepens when you speak gently to him. He's much more of a romantic than he might admit, even as he keens incoherently for more.

"Yes, yes. _Yes_ ," he's growing close, a desperate hand clasping the side of your neck as pressure builds in his groin. "Perfect, that's perfect. Don't stop." He looks so beautiful underneath you. He's yours, _yours._ He knows this, but to whom does he belong, namely? He's never known, but the answer laid before him.  
  
And for what, you ask yourself? A fragile, pointless oath of secrecy to yourself? He's squirming underneath you, toes curling in his boots, the leather of his clothing squeaking with how his body contorts against it. He's everything.  
  
_He's yours._

He can't take much more than another stroke without releasing, and you tell him. You darkly, forcefully whisper your name into his ear and he holds onto you, eyes squeezed shut, writhing, the sound of your name pushing him over the edge. He holds you as he falls, and it's as if you're gravity itself.


End file.
